


Operation Veritable

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canada is not kind and he is not merciful, no matter what others may believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Veritable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maypop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypop/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Meetings at Valley Forge](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7888) by maypop. 



“Rhineland?” Canada mutters, keeping his pistol in hand even as he lights the cigarette clenched between his lips, “more like a wasteland.”

“It isn’t a wasteland,” Prussia sneers, exhaling a plume of smoke and Canada would be impressed that he’s managed to light anything from the soggy packet if he wasn’t so sick of everything _German_ by this point. “Just… water damaged.” Everything’s water damaged now; the floods caused by the breaking of the dikes had only just subsided leaving them to deal with the common wetness of winter. He can see damp stains on Prussia’s clothing and not all of it is water.

“And bomb damaged and artillery damaged,” Canada replies, looking out over the mud and ruins that might once have been farms. You can almost make out the shapes of buildings and orchards if you look carefully. And are half blind. “It could have been God’s own heaven once but it’ll take more than a bath to clean it up now.”

There’s a strangled wheezing noise from Prussia. Canada turns and for a moment wonders whether he’s having some kind of seizure from the way that his shoulders are shaking. He stares for longer than he should if he ever intends to give aid, and then it clicks. “Are you laughing?” he asks with a certain amount of disgust. He’s been feeling that way an awful lot recently, every new report just adds one more nail to the coffin. “I thought this was your land!” He cannot imagine laughing while his own forests and prairies are turned into war losses and statistics.

The laughter turns into what might be a sob and what might be some kind of hacking respiratory disease that brings back foul memories of trenches and mustard gas. Finally Prussia looks up at him, his red eyes dark rimmed and tired. There are deep lines around his mouth and on his brow, the stress and worry that can affect even their kind showing plainly. He looks less like the country whose glorious rise revolutionised war, and more like a man, any man, who had survived the last Great War only to see this one come to pass.

“Why are you _here_?” Prussia demands, “one of England’s bitches in his… treachery.” There is a kind of doggedness to his words, as though he is running on nothing but sheer bloody mindedness, as England would put it, fighting to convince himself as much as the rest of the world.

Canada is used to dealing with this type of bloody mindedness on all sides.

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Canada asks, fingers tightening around his gun. It would be pertinent to shoot him but what would one more corpse add to the situation save food for the crows? “Or is that what your _boss_ is calling it?”

Prussia sighs, pulling his greatcoat around himself. Winter doesn’t show much sign of abating any time soon but it doesn’t seem to be affecting the morale of the Germans any, more's the pity. “He calls it a gross betrayal of British heritage. You’ve been led astray, he says, by the lies of your warmongering leaders.” He grins manically, spreading his arms wide in a mocking gesture as he speaks, to indicate this grand empire of rain and ruin.

“I’ve heard more conviction from corpses,” Canada snorts, and drops the butt of the cigarette to the ground. Doesn’t even need to stub it out; it’s quickly engulfed by the mud. “He must know what’s coming by now,” he says suddenly. It might take a while longer than hoped, but how long can Germany last caught between the frying pan and the fire? He’s sure that England would have a much more classical turn of phrase, but Canada’s never much had time for fancy words like that; _bloody_ and _bollocks_ were the first bits of English that he picked up, alongside the French that France would only described as mangled.

Prussia shivers and really, he looks rather scrawny under that coat, not exactly the mad warrior in blue that Canada remembers from his youth. The damp manages to seep into your bones after a while and their supplies have to be as thin as the Allies’ by now. Somehow Canada cannot bring himself to feel sympathetic.

“Why _are_ you here?” Prussia asks, giving him a searching look. “You didn’t have to be, safe over the Atlantic. Why get involved?” 

That surprises Canada and he stares back, lips drawn into a tight line before he shrugs one shoulder. No-one’s bothered asking that before and so he’s not bothered thinking about it. Everyone assumes that he’s England’s property still. “Someone has to be here to pay attention to things beyond Europe’s family ties,” he says with a smile that is nearly a sneer. “Maybe I was just so desperate for round two.” And maybe the lure of proving himself was still too great. 

Prussia laughs, and it is a laugh this time, not that horrible gurgling sound. “Kid after my own heart.”

He doesn’t see red. Maybe that should worry him more than it does when he grabs Prussia by the throat, gloved fingers squeezing a little and _God_ he’s light, like he’s barely skin and bone held together by stubborn malevolence. “You won’t say that again,” he says. It isn’t a request. 

Prussia swallows, searches his face and Canada doesn’t want to know what he sees there. “That won’t kill me,” he says, but the uncertain little flick of his tongue against his lips says otherwise. Prussia isn’t what it once was.

“Maybe it just won’t kill you _yet_ ,” Canada replies.

Prussia’s breath catches in his throat, red eyes widening as the gun presses up hard against his ribs and he can’t tell if it’s threat or promise or mere statement, let alone if there’s any truth to it. It would be, Canada thinks, like shooting a wounded dog at this point but even that doesn’t help him decide if it would be cruelty or a mercy. It would probably be crueler to hand him over to England or France though.

He lets Prussia go, half flinging him back to the ground and ignoring the wince and the stains on his coat that are spreading again. He’s got barely enough to patch his own people up. He takes the pistol, aims and fires, the sound ringing loud in his ears, loud enough that his men will have heard it too and know what it signifies.

The hole next to Prussia’s feet fills quickly with mud as the other country scrambles back, dragging himself to stand up. He says something in… no, it isn’t German. It's Latin, flawless after all this time. There's a sort of wild desperation in Prussia's eyes and this is as close to begging as he's ever likely to come. "Appealing to my Catholic side is to appeal to my _French_ side," Canada replies flatly, "and the part that France raised is not someone to appeal to now."

"Why let me go at all?"

“It’s just temporary,” Canada says quietly, “and it isn’t mercy. We’ll catch up to you in Berlin.” He turns his back and it’s a stupid thing to do most likely but he can think of no better way to show his derision. He stares up at the grey sky. “More God damned rain,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets.


End file.
